


Seems You Have Forgotten

by bold_seer



Category: Per qualche dollaro in più | For A Few Dollars More (1965)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Gen, Loss, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-12-06 19:41:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18224582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bold_seer/pseuds/bold_seer
Summary: A man shoots a man, an unfamiliar gun in his hands and tears in his eyes.





	Seems You Have Forgotten

one. 

A man shoots a man, who dies. A man is shot, but a woman, wife to widow in a heartbeat, makes a choice and picks up a gun and shoots herself. They leave behind two pocket watches, a wedding gift from the groom to the bride. One disappears into the rain.

There’s a man to see them buried. He wears black that day, wears black for the rest of his days. Grief marks his features. Lives in his eyes and adds to his years. He disappears, as well.

People breathe out in relief, thanking their luck none of them married their sister or daughter to him. If the thought entered their minds - once or twice, for wasn’t Mortimer a respected man - they dismissed it. Honourable and just, they nodded. Refined and polite in company, though he also kept to himself. It was strange. Strange that it was difficult to picture a man with his virtues settling down. With a wife, sons and daughters. Was there a restless quality to him? Too blunt, clever and evasive, when others were so simple and open. No locks to pick, no mysteries to solve.

A tragic loss, the delicate details unknown. People in these parts are discreet, no gossips. Life goes on without him. Without all of them. A reputation remains. Previously unquestioned, any suspicions fleeting, unspoken, they may never have existed at all. It turns a little greyer, more muddled with time. Before long, it becomes impossible to separate fact from rumour, from idle speculation. Colonel Mortimer shot a man in New Mexico, in Texas. Some lawless place in the West, which makes men uncivilised. Or was that the war, or was it something about Mortimer? The Mortimers. Even the name conveys death.

Years pass, filled with dust and blood. The woman lives on, confined to photographs. A watch is a memento. It’s also a watch. It doesn’t contain her spirit, but a handful of memories. Who she was, who she might’ve been, when she was still alive.

...

one. 

He uses drugs, to remember or forget. Has he forgotten which? Perhaps the habit had already formed, paranoia and confusion a part of him. Or they always were. The details fade into a haze, as he’s chasing it. A feeling. The climax. Only to be denied.

Of all the disturbing things. To expect a responsive body, find a newly made corpse. He’s left with this toy, this puzzle, which becomes an obsession. With an iron grip on his mind, like a locked safe. It plays one melody.

Until, the chimes whisper. Is that a promise or a threat?

...

one. 

A man shoots at another man. Because he is young and he is reckless. Because he can. He circles his man, a predator around its prey, and steps on his boot. It’s a childish impulse, but there are echoes of other rituals. Birds and other animals. It’s oddly personal, the lead-up to something else entirely. Which reverts to violence. As he shoots at his hat, asserting something. His strength.

The Colonel faces him. This was his plan all along, this is where he wants to be, or else, he possesses an uncanny ability to work a situation to his advantage. Sly, a little unhinged, but in control, he shoots at Manco. At his hat. Well. There are worse ways to make friends.

The man with a name that is or isn’t his, half a name, asks about a watch. Or - he doesn’t. In another man’s room, by another man’s bed, having agreed to his proposition. He glances in that direction. Does the thought cross his mind? There are other questions he could ask. Other indiscreet answers.

He could press Mortimer. Partners should give you more than half a plan. Manco is himself a man of deeds, not of words. He perceives the world and his actions spin from his observations. On instinct. He’s set his sights on it. The key. Turn it, and you unravel a whole lot. If Mortimer won’t share his secrets, it will do the trick.

...

one. 

A man is shot, his man, but Indio doesn’t care. Cucillo counts to three; the stranger shoots. He’s a bounty killer. A bandit with his aim, his draw would’ve attracted attention. Would’ve made a name for himself. He’s also outnumbered. Indio could have him shot. Let it happen. Let him shoot at his men, try to, but it’s the wrong time for any of that.

Indio senses it. Their tavern audience must sense it, too. The man has something for him. Is something, or someone. He sits down. Takes a bite, chews on it. Sees in his mind the image of an object. Feels himself closing in on an answer.

To the million dollar question.

...

two. 

A man sits down at his table. The man he’s been looking for, a madman. His sister’s rapist and killer, as good as, is picking at his food, and Mortimer is so close to getting what he wants, and yet so far from where he wants to be.

With confidence in himself, his abilities, he makes an offer.

...

three. 

It’s not fifteen to one, but the odds are bad even for a good shot. Mortimer is a better shot than to hit him in the neck. Good enough to only graze a moving target. Better, probably, than Manco. Who stands there, glass in hand. Waiting.

Mortimer shoots without hesitating. He seems less certain when he turns. Wary, when Indio motions him to sit down. Indio is dangerous and unpredictable, but that’s nothing new. So are many of the men they encounter. So are they. Mortimer’s demeanour shifts back to easy control, impenetrable on the surface. What is he playing at? Or with. Didn’t hear the bet.

 _Then the Colonel dies_ , he said. An easy shot, which meant nothing. Moments ago, he was disgruntled to see him. How was it that the man was always two steps ahead? Had planned for every possibility. For this?

It’s starting to mean something.

...

one. 

Day breaks, the clouds of distrust cleared away. The air is stagnant from the tension nonetheless. A stopped clock, unnaturally still.

Mortimer speaks: a request, a statement, an order. So subdued, it’s difficult to tell. Quiet determination is a deadly weapon.

Manco agrees. There’s something between them. Shared experiences, but more than that. Rare for men, for men like them.

...

one. 

A man walks close to death, or death walks close to him. In his footsteps. Indio senses it, the clock ticking for the Colonel. It’s a ritual by now, the chimes. He has shot countless men - and women, no difference there, yet sometimes a difference - toying with his prey before the kill. There’s something. New, familiar. Teased at, exciting. It fills his body with vigour, sends his mind spinning.

He studies the woman, the girl. Her dark locks and dark eyes. The man in black. Too neat for a killer, though he is a soldier. Not destined for this path, but destined to face Indio, from the moment he stepped onto the road. He appears to have lost all hope. They all do, in the end. Standing in silent defeat. Having yielded before the end. Waiting for a bullet to finish them.

The music takes him back, traps him in the moment and keeps him captive. A picture forms. Faces float together. The body under him. The man he’s facing.

Giddy, high, Indio moves his hand moves towards his hip. Ready to replace one victim with another. Rid himself of old ghosts.

...

two. 

His borrowed (stolen) watch picks up the melody. Both men turn at the unlikely echo, a perfectly timed disruption. Mortimer is unarmed, and so is his face, defenceless, open with betrayal and despair. It’s the expression of a man who’s lost something. Is on the verge of losing everything. Has lost something more. Who feels the phantom touch of a pickpocket on his body. How it was that Manco’s agile fingers removed the watch from its chain.

Manco keeps his eyes fixed on Indio. He looks like a petulant child, caught doing what he shouldn’t. He looks worried, as he should be. There’s only one way Manco is going to let this end. But they are not three men facing each other, shooting till at least one of them lies dead on the ground. Not two against one either. He takes off the belt. The arbiter between good and evil, he sides with the good, but stands aside. He could fight. It’s not his fight, though he’s made it his business.

He considers the watch. The woman in the photograph could be anyone. No one. Any loved one, or anyone at all. He dismisses his first thought. The second. He has an idea.

Returns to the scene. For a moment, it seems as if Indio will draw faster. As if Indio has it in him to hit Mortimer, even from the ground. A moment, which gives Manco the time to think. Feel. It’s not a waste of a bullet to _live_.

He speaks, terse and laconic, with affected nonchalance. Which covers his relief. Reveals it.

...

three. 

A man shoots a man, an unfamiliar gun in his hands and tears in his eyes. It’s done, it’s over, and it feels earned. Not because of the bounty. Because this was the way it had to end - in his death or Indio’s. Or both.

The watch he picks up is familiar, for all that it’s not. _Here_ , says Manco, almost gently, returning the other. The possibility hangs in the air. Of what? In the midst of all this violence, Mortimer doesn’t know what to do with it.

The money he leaves with no thought. The man with some.

Maybe, and that’s it.


End file.
